Retribution
by First Weaver
Summary: The Fire Lady pays a visit of state to the Phoenix King.


My first foray into Avatar fic, and yes, it is both dark and scary... but this scene just popped into my head, so I wrote it and thought I'd share. I do not own _Avatar, the Last Airbender_, 'cause if I did Aand would've had to man up and skewer Ozai. Just my personal opinion. ^_^

* * *

_"Though the mills of God grind slowly,_

_Yet they grind exceeding small;_

_"Though with patience he stands waiting,_

_With exactness grinds he all."_

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The sun looked like nothing so much as an unusually rotund blood orange, lingering on the horizon like an elderly relative too comfortable to leave the party just yet; it was a tropical sunset worthy of a classic Fire Nation epic, the sort of glorious riot of red-spectrum color that seemed to last forever before twilight suddenly descended. Above a warm and languorous breeze, a few billowy clouds painted in salmon and glitter teased with the possibility of distant rain. The air was clear, with the curious golden quality only a few summer evenings possessed.

Most of the sprawling capital city moved at the same unconcerned pace. It had been a holiday, commemorating the five year anniversary of the beginning of Fire Lord Zuko's reign and coincidental end to a century-long war. After three straight days of carnivals, fireworks, circuses, and riotous dusk-to-dawn beach parties, most of the island's half-million or so inhabitants would be sleeping or wishing for it.

Mai had a fond, sarcastic grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she checked in on her husband. The center of celebratory attention was currently sound asleep in his favorite carved-wood chair with lumpy, squashy cushions. Their son, eleven months old, had one tiny hand dimpled into a fist on the loose collar of his father's robe, on whose chest he was assiduously drooling. The picture they made was too nauseatingly cute to be fake—fiction had to be realistic, after all. It was unusual for Zuko-or Zhai, for that matter, who took after his father in a lot more than looks—to be asleep before full dark, but they'd both been worn out with partying. Neither of them should miss her before she got back. It was good, to see them sleeping peacefully.

_I've always known Zuko has demons; it is part of what draws me to him. But I really hadn't understood the depth of his haunting until we'd been married the better part of a week._

_It is too hot to sleep. Between the oppressive heat of the summer solstice and the natural fever-warmth of a firebender at rest, the bed is approaching temperatures somewhere in the sauna range. Zuko, naturally, is blissfully unconscious._

_Or maybe not so blissful. As I surface from a deep drowse to true waking, I realize that he is muttering, thrashing in his sleep. Zuko often talks in his sleep, on topics ranging from the profound to the ridiculous. I lean in closer, bracing my hand on the headboard for balance._

"'_m sorry… please…!"_

_Sorry for what, I wonder? Is he having a nightmare?_

"_Didn't mean… just wanna help…"_

_Help _who?_ I reach out, ready to wake him. He's keeping me awake._

_The next phrase stops me in my tracks. "Father, please, no!"_

_He's dreaming of the Agni Kai. For Zuko, there is only one._

_Swallowing against a suddenly dry mouth, I whisper, "Zuko." More urgent. "Zuko!"_

_He wakes with a soundless gasp, eyes wide and hands thrown up in defensive terror. "No!"_

"_Zuko! Chill." My heart is thumping; I've not seen him look so frightened since—forever. _

_To my utter horror, his good eye fills with tears, and he swipes at them ineffectively. "Sorry. I thought you… it was just a nightmare."_

_There's nothing 'just' about a nightmare that wakes a grown man in a cold sweat. I reach out and gather him close, not saying a word. What _could_ I possibly say?_

_I'm not sure—he's so quiet—but I think he cries himself to sleep._

Knives in place at her wrists, forearms, waist, small of the back, thighs, calves, and hairpins, Mai donned a light cloak of burgundy linen with a wide, deep hood. Devoid of embroidery or golden insignia, the cloak was the sort a moderately prosperous merchant's wife might wear, and therefore utterly unremarkable. Mai slid the screen door quietly shut behind her, and gave instructions in a soft voice to the attendant on duty that the occupants not be disturbed.

Down the hall, past the luxurious but tastefully simple furnishings and out of the private living quarters; as Mai passed the Greater Hall she thought she could feel the eyes of centuries' worth of previous Fire Lords and Ladies watching her, weighing and judging. The dark-paneled wooden halls were eerily empty, but her well-trained steps made no sound.

Disdaining the massive double front gate, she slipped out the postern. The cobbled streets were littered with the debris of a good time: paper cones with a few fire flakes still clinging to the edges, soot marks, a torn black scarf and a papier mache player's mask. Mai saw a cat slink into an alleyway, and a doddering servant sweeping his master's stoop with dogged determination, but the streets were otherwise empty.

And growing emptier. Moving at a brisk—but not suspicious—walk, Mai rapidly left the hub of the palace surrounds. Zuko had made his home into a place that welcomed advisor and petitioner, rich and poor alike, but the dim, narrow streets of the prison quarter were a place that no one went without good reason and a healthy dose of procrastination. Pausing at the door of the high-security block, she put her palm on the sun-warmed stone. _Agni, give me strength_….

The prison was chilly in a way that had nothing to do with mercury. Deep underground, it was hidden completely from the life-giving light and warmth of sunshine. Only a few torches burned, and they taunted more than comforted. Fire was _life_; only the truly evil could be condemned to live without it. She did a double take when she passed a sleeping female prisoner, holding a baby-sized bundle to her breast, but it was only a pillow.

_Zuko trembles as Iroh carefully places our newborn son in his arms. Zhai is perfect, from his fine cap of silky black hair to his ten tiny fingers, too small to be real, and his rosebud mouth, opened wide in a yawn. His eyes are pale gold, the first brush of timid dawn along the horizon; as he gets older, they will darken to true dragon's-hoard amber. Fragile, warm, and snuggly—_

_And Zuko is terrified of him._

"_What if I drop him?"_

"_You won't," Iroh's voice is laughing at the edges, but he controls it well. "It is just like a kitten-owlet, only bigger."_

"_I don't know how to do this," Zuko sounds a bit panicky. I roll my eyes. _

"_I think you've got it figured out, genius."_

"_No, I mean…" Zuko swallows hard. "I don't know how to be a father."_

Her agents had already cleared the prison, drugged the prisoners and reassigned the guards. There would be no evidence, no motive or tangibility to the act; Mai had planned an operation worthy of the Blue Spirit himself.

The cell she sought was the deepest, coldest part of the prison. Not even torches graced the walls. The only slim line of sanity for a child of fire to cling to was a two-by-six inch slot set on the wall by the ceiling. The occupant was a wasted, weary man, hair hacked off in a rough shaggy mess. There was a shelf-bed built into the wall, but he disdained it, kneeling in profile, straight as a rod. He looked _so _much like Zuko.

_The candles are flaring in a steady, controlled rhythm. I wouldn't be surprised if he was meditating, but he is reading a scroll at his desk, every muscle from the top of his neck to the bottom of his spine tense as an elephant-mouse in a room full of hungry saber moose-lions. I decide to be a good spouse and find out what's wrong._

"_Who died?" I ask, making myself comfortable on the edge of his desk where I can see the scroll. Koala-lambskin, calligraphy, gold leaf and scarlet swirls; looks like something from the Dragonbone Catacombs._

"_I wish." Zuko exhales through gritted teeth, and the candles flare a foot in the air. "It's the latest chronicle from the Fire Sages."_

"_And…?"_

"_It's less than flattering."_

"_And…?"_

"_They said I'm just like my father!" Zuko's cheeks flame scarlet._

"_Lemme see."_

_I scan the offensive page, and find the paragraph about halfway through. __**'Ushering in an unprecedented age of prosperity and peace, it has been asserted that Fire Lord Zuko is a new kind of ruler, breaking with the tradition of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. However, the marks of blood and genealogy still tell. Like his forebears, Fire Lord Zuko displays an iron will, unshakeable tenacity, and a knack for fiscal management. It may be more accurate to call the new Fire Lord a moderate recast of an old mold, rather than a radical new pioneer."**_

_Briefly, I consider filleted chronicler for lunch. I'm sure Zuko will be willing to roast him for me._

"_I'm never going to escape him," Zuko sinks back in his chair. "Never."_

Mai dropped one of her knives from its spring-loaded sheath at her wrist, gauging with a practiced eye distance, balance, distortion, and location of the arterial pulse. With this one, there would be no mistakes.

Ozai looked up at her with dull eyes and an empty smirk. "So you've finally decided to do the honorable thing," he drawled. A pause, and the smirk slipped. "Why now?"

Toying with the razor-sharp dagger between her fingers, Mai considered the last rays of dying sunlight shining through the bars. Did this man really deserve the truth?

She thought of thirteen-year-old Zuko—shy, sweet, awkward, honorable—reduced to mindless agony and humiliated by the man who ought to have protected him, set to a cruel and impossible task for the sake of _pride_. The sun slipped a little lower, a shaving-thin sliver on the far wall.

"Because my husband's too busy," Mai said, typically laconic, and struck.

Blood sprayed, and Ozai's hand snatched reflexively once at the wound, clawing at empty air; with a last, agonized rattle for breath, he went limp. The tenacious final rays of light failed, and the cell fell into purple-gray twilight.

With clinical detachment Mai checked for a breath, a heartbeat. Finding neither, she wiped her knife on a relatively clean portion of the rough prison tunic before resheathing it.

As she left the prison, diamond-glitters of stars appeared in the velvety purple east. Small, but bright and real as the beginning of hope.

_Finis_


End file.
